


Insomniac.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Insomnia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Made For Each Other, Morning Kisses, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Can't Sleep, Sleepy Kisses, Sleepy Sherlock, So Married, Sweet John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and some more fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:03:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes the strangest things can be cures to what we never knew we had.





	

They check into one room while on the case. One room with one bed.

"Sorry, mate," The innkeeper (they were staying at an inn for that case) says when they ask for a room with two beds. "But we've got none left. There's only one left, an' that's got one bed, an' all the other places are full 'round this time of year."  
"We'll take it," John replies, handing over his credit card.

Now they're stood in the aforementioned room, Sherlock in ratty pyjamas and John in well-kept ones, a jumper thrown on top. "You take it," Sherlock insists to John, knowing he won't be able to sleep tonight.  
The doctor nods, agreeing, "Okay." What he doesn't know can't hurt him.

[His insomnia comes at random times. Random amounts. It's vicious, cruel, harsh, relentless. Sherlock's never sure how long it will last for. He's never sure how long he can stay awake before he passes out. It's a violent, inescapable cycle; sadly a cycle he's grown used to.]

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock," The words come unbidden from John's mouth. Interrupt Sherlock's steady pacing. "I know you haven't been sleeping well - insomnia?"

Sherlock nods, almost ashamed, dare he say it, over his lack of sleep.

The doctor sighs. "I thought so." Then he sits up. "C'mere." 

Something in John's tone brooks no arguments, and Sherlock is far too tired to argue. He just hopes that whatever John wants to do will help him get some sleep. 

[The lack of sleep turns his brain to much. He can't think, can't deduce. Sees everything through fake glass-eyes. Through lenses. It's impossible for him to do any work once he's been stuck awake for more than a week at a time. So he just doesn't try, but the glass-eye-lenses stay until he gets to sleep again.]

Once Sherlock is sat on the bed, John swings himself over to the same side. One of the doctor's hands begins rubbing Sherlock's upper right arm, easing a tension out of it that he did not know existed. The detective sighs, blissful.

John continues working his way through the muscles, no real order to it. He just eases the tension out of the muscles. Relaxes Sherlock. Not once does he complain about it. 

The doctor's hands slide up Sherlock's back to his neck, gently rubbing the tension out of him. The detective sinks back into his touch. He might be mistaken, but he thinks he heard the detective whine when he took his hands away. It soon changes to a soft-uttered gasp, a small "Oh," as John presses a little butterfly kiss to Sherlock's neck.

-

Sherlock himself can hardly believe it. Instead of trying to articulate his thoughts, he leans back into John, the added weight making them both flop down on the bed, swathed in each other's warmth, a mess of mind and matter, neither one fully aware of what they're doing yet fully accepting of it. 

The detective curls further into his blogger, and grabs his hand. A reassurance - that he's there, that he's not leaving; a million little things, significant and not, crossing both of their minds in a matter of seconds. His eyes suddenly feel heavy with sleep. His brain goes twice slower than it was before, but he doesn't complain. All he does is hold John's hand tighter.

[The bouts of insomnia can fade in a matter of days, weeks, months. Each time it varies, and they can never predict which one it will be. There is a sporadic element to them which makes them impossible to trace, to find out how long they will be. It's been two months, five days and twenty two hours since the last insomniac outburst, which went on for five days before he finally collapsed.]

The last thing he registers before his mind shuts down is John's hand gripping his tighter.

-

He wakes up swaddled in warmth, nestled into John, the phantom echo of the butterfly kiss sweet against his neck and sending shivers down his spine. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat as he twists around, coming face to face with John, whose face is relaxed in sleep and whose hand is still holding Sherlock's own. 

After five minutes of Sherlock staring at him, John wakes up.

It's kind of adorable, really, seeing John yawn, facial expression still relaxed and his movements lazy and thoughtless. It makes Sherlock want to grab his face and kiss him. So he does.

John melts into it, which Sherlock didn't expect, free hand coming to tangle in his curls. But he smiles anyway, joyful, and when they part for breath it is John who says, "I want to be woken up like this every day," gesturing to them, and it is John who dives back in for the second kiss.

And Sherlock wouldn't change it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of sleeping  
> how ironic.


End file.
